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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28889229">There Are More Things in Heaven and Earth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augenblickgotter/pseuds/Augenblickgotter'>Augenblickgotter</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama'>Rokikurama</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fae &amp; Fairies, Fae Magic, Footnotes, Gen, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, She/Her Pronouns for Uriel (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Wild Hunt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:54:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28889229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augenblickgotter/pseuds/Augenblickgotter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokikurama/pseuds/Rokikurama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Turn out angels and demons aren't the only kids in the sandbox. And with God apparently on an extended coffee break, they don't all see a reason to play nice.</p><p>Story is by Rokikurama, based on art by Augenblickgotter/Inkibus. Check them out here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augenblickgotter/works<br/>Created for the Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang 2021!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Than are Dreamt Of In Your Philosophy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The night breeze sent ripples through the alley’s puddles, carrying with it the sweet scents of a spring day out at a country fair. Meadow grass, candy floss, toffee apples, honeysuckle, even a fresh running spring. Given that the demon Mephistopheles was crouched in a rancid Soho alley behind a club called Moist,<sup><a href="#fn1" id="ref1" name="ref1">[1]</a></sup> this really should have raised more alarm than it did. Unfortunately for Mephistopheles, not particularly knowledgeable about London’s <em><em>eau de urban</em></em>, all it did was tickle his whiskers and make him sneeze. Blessed fucking nature. Blessed fucking cat form. There was a reason he’d switched to tempting writers, scholars, and other such humans whose natural habitat could be thoroughly summed up with the word “indoors.” Very hard to project a tempting air of mystery and menace when you were physically<sup><a href="#fn2" id="ref2" name="ref2">[2]</a></sup> cursed with the sniffles.</p><p>Mephistopheles idly sharpened his claws, scratching deep gouges down the side of the car he’d been sheltering under. It was his seventh trip up on reconnaissance<sup><a href="#fn3" id="ref3" name="ref3">[3]</a></sup> since Hastur went AWOL. He’d been on high alert the first few times—Hastur’s last recorded miracles were some seriously high energy hellfire, and Lucifer only knew what the traitors might be capable of. As time wore on, however, Mephistopheles had seen no evidence that Aziraphale and Crowley were capable of anything except excruciatingly saccharine PDA.<sup><a href="#fn4" id="ref4" name="ref4">[4]</a></sup> He’d begun to view these trips less as perilous missions into disputed territory and more as a marvelous means by which to avoid Dagon, Lord of the Files, when she went looking for “volunteers” to help audit six-thousand years of reports. He could even soak up some high-quality sin, direct from the source. Hastur would turn up when he turned up. Poor bastard was probably due a vacation anyway.</p><p>Unlike an unusual smell, the deep, throaty baying of a pack of hunting hounds was not something you could easily ignore. Here the demon’s lack of common earth sense actually worked in his favor. The thought “terrifying giant dogs are unlikely to be hunting as a pack through urban Soho” might well have occurred to a human Londoner, or even an earth-stationed supernatural agent. Such an entity might have done something extremely foolish, like turning around to look for the source of the sound. Our hypothetical human might even have tsked, commenting loudly that if this racket was what passed for music with the youth these days, they were quite alright with being “an old fart.” It would have been the last thing they ever did. Mephistopheles, on the other hand, went from a lazy sprawl to a dead sprint in a heartbeat, with the speed only possessed by a startled cat. Otherwise, he never would have made it out of the alley. Feline form had some advantages, after all. The demon ran for the main road, reasoning that a lone cat had a much better chance of skittering through the traffic unharmed than did a whole pack of what sounded like <em><em>very</em></em> large dogs. But the hunters only closed the distance. Mephistopheles could hear the thuds of galloping horses now, and someone was sounding a horn, with the kind of high, clear note that you can only actually get from a musical instrument in fairytales. The nearest entrance to Hell<sup><a href="#fn5" id="ref5" name="ref5">[5]</a></sup> was not in Soho at all but the City, at a certain particularly Bad snarl of ley lines.<sup><a href="#fn6" id="ref6" name="ref6">[6]</a></sup> He was not going to make it.</p><p>Not as a cat on foot, at least. Mephistopheles broke left and scaled the first vaguely climbable construction scaffolding he could find. He leapt out into the open air, reaching for his demonic power to shift from feline form into a human-shaped figure with<sup><a href="#fn7" id="ref7" name="ref7">[7]</a></sup> wings. He might as well have tried to chew a moonbeam. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And where, Mephistopheles thought hysterically as he reached the highest point of his leap, had all the fucking <em><em>trees</em></em> come from?</p><p>He was falling now, straining with legs stretched and claws extended to catch hold of something, anything, a fencepost or a balcony railing or even a fucking tree branch, whatever could keep him above the dogs. There were more horns now, and shouting, and even something that might have been the strumming of a lute. It made for a surreal serenade as Mephistopheles fell. Fell. Again. Fuck. Fuckity fuckity fuck <em><em>fuck</em></em>. It was almost a relief to hear the snap of bowstrings and whistle of incoming arrows—at least it wasn’t going to be the lake of boiling sulfur this time. One dip in that had been one time too many. He had a sudden vision of Dagon’s suspicious narrowed eyes when he turned in his last “no news” report on Hastur’s whereabouts and just enough time to think <em><em>Satan, I should’ve taken my chances with the filing</em></em>, before everything went dark.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Crowley shut his eyes, exhaled, and reminded himself<sup><a href="#fn8" id="ref8" name="ref8">[8]</a></sup> that he loved Aziraphale. He loved Aziraphale with every fiber of his being, even with all the demonic ones that whispered ever-so-helpful ideas like “ooh, you’ve got a great thing going up here, with the wings and the harps and the whatnot! Why don’t we ask some questions, there’s no way that could mess anything up!” But when he opened his eyes, the mug was still there. On the coffee table. Moonlighting as a biological containment experiment. Just like it had been this morning when he’d asked Aziraphale to tackle the washing up before he went to the shop, and Aziraphale had kissed him on the cheek and said “of course, my dearest, I’ll do it as soon as I finish this chapter.” Crowley loved Aziraphale. He did. Desperately. Completely. Utterly. He was also possibly going to strangle the angel with his bare hands before the week was through.</p><p>It had originally been Aziraphale’s idea to cut down on their miracles, and Crowley had heartily agreed. Leadership might have agreed to leave them alone after their unsuccessful executions, but that agreement was likely to last a good while longer if they didn’t rub Heaven and Hell’s collective noses in it. Really, best for both sides to forget about their “retired” agents altogether. And it wasn’t like foregoing small miracles would be that much of a hardship for them. Puh-leeze. They had lived among the humans for over six-thousand years, after all. Really, most of their miracles and curses got used on assignments, didn’t they? Would hardly make a difference in day-to-day life. Obviously, they would make exceptions for dangerous and unforeseen situations.<sup><a href="#fn9" id="ref9" name="ref9">[9]</a></sup></p><p>Crowley glared at the mug and hissed. It appeared unimpressed. So too did the spray of assorted bookbinding materials, empty wine bottles, dirty laundry, plates encrusted with crumbs and unidentified sticky substances, teetering piles of books, still open pots of lip balm, and, oh look, more mugs<sup><a href="#fn10" id="ref10" name="ref10">[10]</a></sup> that occupied his coffee table and drifted down off it onto the surrounding floor. He couldn’t turn around, because if he did, then he would see the kitchen. Granted, he’d made most of <em><em>that</em></em> mess himself, but considering that said mess had been spawned in the course of making both of them meals over the last few days, Crowley thought it was only right that someone else<sup><a href="#fn11" id="ref11" name="ref11">[11]</a></sup> do the washing up. Also, he was a fucking demon who’d had God’s loving grace ripped out of him right before a thousand light-year plunge into a lake of boiling sulfur, he should at least get to fill in the holes in his immortal essence with Sloth.</p><p>Clearly, he and Aziraphale needed to have A Talk. The eggs he’d made for their breakfast<sup><a href="#fn12" id="ref12" name="ref12">[12]</a></sup> roiled unhelpfully in his stomach at the thought. Crowley usually loved arguing with Aziraphale, but that was because usually nothing they argued about actually <em><em>mattered</em></em>, when you came right down to it. This... well. This was liable to drive Crowley into an early shed if it continued much longer. And Aziraphale would not want that. Aziraphale loved him.<sup><a href="#fn13" id="ref13" name="ref13">[13]</a></sup></p><p>When Aziraphale walked back in through the door several hours<sup><a href="#fn14" id="ref14" name="ref14">[14]</a></sup> later, Crowley still didn’t have a plan. Aziraphale smiled when he saw Crowley, though, which these days never failed to make Crowley blush and—though he would deny it literally for eternity—smile back shyly.<sup><a href="#fn15" id="ref15" name="ref15">[15]</a></sup> But then Aziraphale put the miscellaneous post he was carrying down on the hall table, which was apparently the junk mail equivalent of the single snowflake that started the avalanche. The advertising leaflets, circulars neither of them could actually remember signing up for, random bills uselessly duplicating ones already auto-paid out of online accounts, and devil knew what other wastes of paper cascaded down off the table. Today’s contributions to the heap surfed the wave before skidding across the concrete floor to Crowley’s feet. He shuddered.</p><p>“Aziraphale,” he said, with as much casualness as he could force into his voice, “would you mind picking that lot up?”</p><p>The angel glanced briefly over his shoulder at the mess he’d already stepped over and waved a hand airily. “Yes, yes, of course, my dearest, but first—”</p><p>“Now. I mean. Would you pick it up. Now.”</p><p>Aziraphale stopped. Stilled.</p><p>“Well, naturally.” He turned to scoop up the pile and held it in his arms. “Where should I put it?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Well surely you stored your correspondence somewhere in this modernist cavern of a flat before I moved in?”</p><p>Crowley snorted.</p><p>“It’s all worthless, Aziraphale, a waste of paper and people’s time. I should know, ad mail actually was one of mine.” Aziraphale just stared at him, visibly aghast.</p><p>“Fine. Give it here and I’ll take care of it,” Crowley said and licked his thumb so a small flame burst into life. Aziraphale jerked backwards.</p><p>“It most certainly is not! Of all the irresponsible—this is mine from the bookshop as well! I am engaged in a protracted negotiation over a collection of scrolls from the Topkapı Palace!”</p><p>Of course Aziraphale <em><em>would</em></em> be the last person on this Earth using actual physical letters. Crowley rolled his eyes and wiggled his fingers. “Fine. Give me mine, then, and just. Put. Yours. Away.”</p><p>Aziraphale glared.</p><p>“Where, Crowley,” the angel said in a deliberately even, slow tone that raised every one of the hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck, “Should I put my post? And my books? And my clothes? And the tea things? And everything else of <em><em>me</em></em> that you refuse to make space for in <em><em>your</em></em> flat?”</p><p>Crowley gaped. The sound of Aziraphale slapping the pile of post back down on the table was rather loud.</p><p>“Don’t try to turn this around on me, angel. There’d be plenty of space for everything if you’d ever pick anything up—”</p><p>“If <em><em>I</em></em> ever—if you ever thought about—what about this beastly humidity? I asked you to turn it down last week, and yet I still find myself feeling the collar<sup><a href="#fn16" id="ref16" name="ref16">[16]</a></sup> while simply reading the newspaper!” Aziraphale interrupted him hotly.</p><p>Conversation continued in what we shall term a robust manner. Crowley paced in circles, shouting and waving his arms around at his formerly pristine flat. Aziraphale stood at attention and watched him, hands clasped behind his back, while speaking extremely precisely in a tone not so much “frosty” as “absolute zero.” It was bloody incredible how the angel could look down his nose at him when Crowley was, in the physical reality of their corporations, a few inches taller. By thirteen minutes later they were at the point of digging up old sores and pouring in the salt.<sup><a href="#fn17" id="ref17" name="ref17">[17]</a></sup> Which is probably why neither of them noticed that the Prince of Hell had entered the flat until they spoke.</p><p>“Trouble in earthly paradise already, I see,” said Beelzebub, standing in the still wide-open doorway behind Aziraphale. Crowley<sup><a href="#fn18" id="ref18" name="ref18">[18]</a></sup> could move very, very, very fast when he had the appropriate motivation. And no matter how angry he might be with the angel, Aziraphale’s safety was <em><em>always</em></em> appropriate motivation. Aziraphale thought at that same lightning speed with which Crowley moved and possessed the advantage of already being between his Dearest and The Enemy. No London flat, no matter how spacious it thinks it is, is designed for the simultaneous and side-by-side emergence of two sets of very large angelic/demonic wings extended to their full wingspan in full threat display. There followed a heartwarming<sup><a href="#fn19" id="ref19" name="ref19">[19]</a></sup> if somewhat comical<sup><a href="#fn20" id="ref20" name="ref20">[20]</a></sup> collision, as Earthly physics reminded all supernatural beings present that two objects may not inhabit the same space. Black and white feathers exploded everywhere, sidling slowly down through the air to land on Aziraphale and Crowley’s heads as they attempted to untangle their various limbs. Beelzebub laughed. Heartily. It was not a pleasant sound.</p><p>“Wow, I needed that,” they said, wiping tears<sup><a href="#fn21" id="ref21" name="ref21">[21]</a></sup> from their face. “You know, I really thought that Mephistopheles was having Dagon on, but you two really are... something. Satan’s blessed anus. I can’t decide if it’s disgusting or cute.” Beelzebub snorted. “Actually, I can. It’s both. Definitely both.”</p><p>“As I recall,” Aziraphale said with as much dignity as he could muster while brushing feathers out of his hair and off his bum, “you yourself gave the order to Leave. Us. Alone.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, that’s a two-way street, isn’t it?” Beelzebub said. They spit contemptuously. Whatever the Prince of Hell’s spit was composed of sizzled and ate through the solid concrete floor of Crowley’s flat. “Where the fuck are Hastur and Mephistopheles?”</p>
<h3>Footnotes</h3><p><a id="fn1" name="fn1"></a><sup>1.</sup> Those serene rippling pools probably contained fluids besides water, that’s all we’re saying<a href="#ref1">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn2" name="fn2"></a><sup>2.</sup> Or should that be metaphysically?<a href="#ref2">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn3" name="fn3"></a><sup>3.</sup> AKA Get the Hell out of Hell<a href="#ref3">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn4" name="fn4"></a><sup>4.</sup> A more impartial observer (or Aziraphale) might quibble that sex on the couch in the employees-only backroom of a doors-locked, blinds-drawn bookshop could not be disparaged as a “public” display of affection, but it wasn’t for nothing that Eliot wrote of a “Mr. Mistoffelees” who could “creep through the tiniest crack.” Mephistopheles had always been rather proud of that one, even if Crowley never had let him live down the ensuing musical adaptations.<a href="#ref4">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn5" name="fn5"></a><sup>5.</sup> Despite what certain pearl-clutching editorials and sordid Daily Mail headlines would have you believe<a href="#ref5">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn6" name="fn6"></a><sup>6.</sup> Totally and completely coincidentally, said ley lines just happened to connect the historical headquarters of every single legal firm in the “Club of Nine,” aka the Magic Circle, aka a small-to-middling size country’s worst nightmare vis-à-vis financial ruin and functional independence.<a href="#ref6">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn7" name="fn7"></a><sup>7.</sup> Key point<a href="#ref7">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn8" name="fn8"></a><sup>8.</sup> For the thirteenth time that day. At least.<a href="#ref8">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn9" name="fn9"></a><sup>9.</sup> While the fact that Aziraphale (Who, Crowley reminded himself again, was the darling love of his life)<a href="#ref9">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn10" name="fn10"></a><sup>10.</sup> These, at least, seemed mostly to contain cold tea rather than exciting new fungal ecosystems.<a href="#ref10">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn11" name="fn11"></a><sup>11.</sup> aka Aziraphale<a href="#ref11">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn12" name="fn12"></a><sup>12.</sup> Cracked shells, dirty spatula, and greasy pan taunting him from where they still sat on the range, the sink having already met and exceeded maximum dirty dish carrying capacity<a href="#ref12">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn13" name="fn13"></a><sup>13.</sup> Right? He did. Absolutely. Didn't he? No, he did. Yes. Crowley definitely meant "Yes, he did. So, no, he would not want that." Right.<a href="#ref13">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn14" name="fn14"></a><sup>14.</sup> Filled, on Crowley’s part, by pacing, a nap of indeterminate length, and one singularly unfruitful scan through a Language of Flowers guide book. Shockingly, the guide had absolutely no guidance on arranging flowers that said “I love you absolutely, totally, devotedly, passionately, but living with you is driving me up the bloody wall so you need to clean up and put your things away or I will explode. Lovingly. Because I love you.”<a href="#ref14">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn15" name="fn15"></a><sup>15.</sup> Crowley put this otherwise entirely unaccountable response down to the unique particularities of Aziraphale’s smile. How the angel managed to simultaneously imply the bright innocence of a morning meadow sunrise and a blatantly sexual appreciation of his demonic form that would not have been out of place in a Roman orgy, Crowley would never know. Which was emphatically not the same as him not appreciating it.<a href="#ref15">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn16" name="fn16"></a><sup>16.</sup> For those readers not readily conversant with Edwardian English slang, this expression may be glossed as “sweating my fucking balls off.”<a href="#ref16">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn17" name="fn17"></a><sup>17.</sup> Aziraphale recalling a certain bohemian disaster of a Paris atelier that Crowley occupied in his Moulin Rouge phase, and Crowley expressing his appreciation of the angel’s prodigious memory via a rather rude expression last uttered during the Ming dynasty meaning roughly “choke on that egg, you utter idiot.”<a href="#ref17">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn18" name="fn18"></a><sup>18.</sup> As has previously been established in a work you might happen to be familiar with, composed by Mssrs. Gaiman and Pratchett and subsequently adapted for what Aziraphale still called “the television receiver.”<a href="#ref18">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn19" name="fn19"></a><sup>19.</sup> to our own selves, dear reader<a href="#ref19">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn20" name="fn20"></a><sup>20.</sup> At least to Beelzebub<a href="#ref20">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn21" name="fn21"></a><sup>21.</sup> Composed of ...salt water? We hope?<a href="#ref21">↩</a></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Metaphysical Heavyweights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In retrospect, it took Crowley a positively insultingly short amount of time to convince Beelzebub that he couldn’t have had anything to do with the disappearance of <em>two</em> vastly more powerful and highly ranked demons.</p><p>“Fine,” Beelzebub said with poor grace and jammed a handful of chips into their mouth. Crowley and Aziraphale had drawn Beelzebub out to the more neutral territory of the chippy ‘round the corner.<sup><a href="#fn22" id="ref22" name="ref22">[22]</a></sup></p><p>“I did tell Dagon you only got the drop on Ligur out of sheer luck. But you,” they pointed a greasy finger in Aziraphale’s direction, “you goody two-wings—”</p><p>“<em>Four </em>wings, actually,” Aziraphale said primly. “If you must know.” Beelzebub’s brow creased with profound irritation, and Crowley tried<sup><a href="#fn23" id="ref23" name="ref23">[23]</a></sup> to hide his snigger behind a gulp of lager. Aziraphale’s unique streak of posh bastardry made it really difficult to stay angry with him for long.</p><p>“God’s goody FOUR-wings, then, you—”</p><p>“Couldn’t possibly be responsible,” said Uriel from the table next to them. Despite not encountering the usual digestive system, Crowley’s drink still managed to go down the wrong tube and send him spluttering and coughing. Beelzebub and Aziraphale whipped their heads around to stare wide-eyed at Uriel. The angel, for her part, continued staring intently at the one single, drooping, chip that she held up in her hand. Uriel sniffed.</p><p>“These are usually brighter.”</p><p>“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked weakly, patting Crowley soothingly on the back as he recovered from his coughing fit.<sup><a href="#fn24" id="ref24" name="ref24">[24]</a></sup></p><p>“This food,” Uriel said, waving the offending chip. “When you eat these, they usually taste... better. More brilliant flavor.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s mouth hung open, the angel visibly torn between pleasure at Uriel’s wholly unexpected approval of his taste in Earthly food and distress at the level of surveillance implied by her statement. Beelzebub broke the deadlock by loudly smacking their lips, the Prince apparently unphased by the poor specimens of food on offer.</p><p>“You would say that, wouldn’t you,” they accused Uriel.</p><p>“Hardly. If Aziraphale here had gone around smiting Lords of Hell left and right, we’d be having a very different conversation now, wouldn’t we?”</p><p>The truth of such a statement really couldn’t be denied.</p><p>“Besides,” Uriel said and visibly steeled herself. “Michael is gone too.”</p><p>Crowley recovered first.</p><p>“Did anyone actually hear Adam—you remember Adam, don’t you? Blue eyes, curly hair, all-powerful, reality-bending Son of Satan? Ringing any bells?—when he told you lot to get out?”</p><p>Uriel and Beelzebub shrugged simultaneously and, realizing what they’d done, glared daggers at each other.</p><p>“Earth is far more important than we had realized. The choir of Archangels charged me with learning more. Your past reports,” Uriel nodded at Aziraphale, “suggested several avenues of investigation that require no ‘mucking people about,’ as Gabriel reported that ‘Adam’ so charmingly put it.”</p><p>“And Michael?” Aziraphale asked weakly. Crowley resolved to take Aziraphale out to a proper restaurant for a fortifying meal as soon as pos. Both of their nerves could use some steadying. And some wine.<sup><a href="#fn25" id="ref25" name="ref25">[25]</a></sup></p><p>“From her papers, she went to meet Hastur. Re-establish channels of covert communication.”</p><p>All heads turned to Beelzebub. They appeared rather more fatalistic than flummoxed.</p><p>“Fuck.” <sup><a href="#fn26" id="ref26" name="ref26">[26]</a></sup></p><p>~</p><p>Americans, Crowley reflected, were like bottles of cleaner. Abrasive, but they had their uses. Unfortunately, while they pushed to the front, crowded all around, and generally got in the way when you <em>didn’t</em> need them, they bloody well disappeared as soon as you <em>did</em>.</p><p>“Book girl isn’t picking up,” he told Aziraphale. They were back at the bookshop now, having rapidly excused themselves when Beelzebub and Uriel started bonding<sup><a href="#fn27" id="ref27" name="ref27">[27]</a></sup> over the challenges of whipping<sup><a href="#fn28" id="ref28" name="ref28">[28]</a></sup> the rank-and-file of their respective Hosts into obedience with the new company line.</p><p>The bookshop had definite advantages over Crowley’s flat in terms of both reference material<sup><a href="#fn29" id="ref29" name="ref29">[29]</a></sup> and of not shoving the still scattered evidence of their recent conversation<sup><a href="#fn30" id="ref30" name="ref30">[30]</a></sup> in their faces.</p><p>Aziraphale held up an illustration that folded out of the thick tome he had been consulting. Crowley blinked.</p><p>“The last time I saw that many tentacles, I was putting together that presentation on ‘Recent Developments in Lust’ for the centennial conference.”</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>There was a long pause, during which both angel and demon struggled valiantly<sup><a href="#fn31" id="ref31" name="ref31">[31]</a></sup> not to imagine Hastur or Michael anywhere near an “adult video” hentai situation.<sup><a href="#fn32" id="ref32" name="ref32">[32]</a></sup></p><p>“It’s a, ah,” Aziraphale squinted at his book. He carefully enunciated a name in a language foreign to Crowley but which he mentally translated as “Big Nope.”</p><p>“If one of this ...ilk was running about London, one would think we, of all people, would have noticed. It’s hardly inconspicuous.”</p><p>“Would we, though?” Crowley asked glumly. And it was true. Good old Will had it essentially right all the way back in the 1600s: there really were more things in Heaven and Earth<sup><a href="#fn33" id="ref33" name="ref33">[33]</a></sup> than were dreamt of in their philosophy.</p><p>For supernatural beings, “philosophy” had some rather more immediate and practical consequences than it tended to for people who actually were human. Angels and demons exerted a kind of spiritual gravity, simply by existing. It twisted and shifted the threads of reality to align with <em>their</em> powers and views of the world, instead of the more objective and complete world they trod.<sup><a href="#fn34" id="ref34" name="ref34">[34]</a></sup> Being themselves metaphysical heavyweights, perceiving beings spawned of other stars entirely was like trying to peer out of the bottom of a deep hole to see The Amazing Invisible Man doing the moonwalk around its lip.<sup><a href="#fn35" id="ref35" name="ref35">[35]</a></sup> Simply put, it was actually <em>less </em>likely that they would have noticed anything, compared to a human attuned to the various magicks of the universe. Thus the call to Anathema. Who was irritatingly refusing to pick up.<sup><a href="#fn36" id="ref36" name="ref36">[36]</a></sup></p><p>“Whatever it was came into contact with Hastur and Michael and Mephistopheles well enough,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Beelzebub and Uriel told us Hastur and Michael appeared to have been fighting <em>something</em> at the time of their, ah, disappearances.”</p><p>“Very helpful,” Crowley muttered and flopped backwards dramatically, where he sprawled on the pile of tomes they’d already consulted. Aziraphale pinched his lips. For a few minutes, the only sound in the bookshop was the decidedly passive-aggressive flicking of pages.</p><p>“What.”</p><p>“You might, Crowley, at least deign to pretend that you’re putting some effort into assisting.”</p><p>“Oh, might I?”</p><p>“If you would be so kind.”</p><p>“And do what, exactly, <em>Aziraphale</em>? Go wave the Bentley’s driveshaft at some unknown terrifying abomination that killed a Lord of Hell and Heaven’s most militant wanker archangel—at the same time—without inspiring a single Reddit post?<sup><a href="#fn37" id="ref37" name="ref37">[37]</a></sup> Oh, wait, I forgot, we don’t even know where it is or what it looks like. Cheers, I’ll get right on it.”</p><p>“You could at least get off my books,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath, too low for human hearing but well within Crowley’s.</p><p>“What was that?” Crowley said sharply. Distantly, he regretted the words as soon as he spoke them but was too irritated to care. Aziraphale closed the Lovecraftian ritual prayer book he’d been scanning through with a snap.</p><p>“Presumably you have retained some use of your limbs, extraneous as they may be to your core needs, with which you could remove yourself from your current position on top of several nigh-priceless tomes. Or<sup><a href="#fn38" id="ref38" name="ref38">[38]</a></sup> have you instead experienced an early shed and simply neglected to remove yourself from within the molt?”</p><p>“Oh, who isn’t ‘making space’ for whom now?” Crowley said, much more bitterly than he’d intended.</p><p>Silence.</p><p>When Crowley hesitantly sat up enough to actually see his angel, tears<sup><a href="#fn39" id="ref39" name="ref39">[39]</a></sup> trembled in Aziraphale’s wide eyes.</p><p>“Well, then,” Aziraphale said quietly, “If that’s how you feel, perhaps you should return to your flat for whatever remains of the night.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I’ll do that.”</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Crowley generally went in for Sloth rather than Wrath as his personal sin<sup><a href="#fn40" id="ref40" name="ref40">[40]</a></sup> of choice. Crowley’s anger was more akin to a match,<sup><a href="#fn41" id="ref41" name="ref41">[41]</a></sup> quick to flare and quick to extinguish, than the smoldering ashes of whatever feeling gripped him now.</p><p>Crowley really didn’t think he could face his messy, empty flat. He found himself in Hyde Park<sup><a href="#fn42" id="ref42" name="ref42">[42]</a></sup> stalking down the path along the bank of the Serpentine. There hadn’t been much of the night left, and dawn broke grey over the whole scene, turning even those vibrant, well-tended grounds bleak and colorless.</p><p>The thing. The thing was. The thing was, that it wasn’t just that he was angry. Satan knew he’d been angry with Aziraphale before. It was that he was afraid. Terrified, really. He’d lived long enough—they both had—to see many, many pairs of star-crossed lovers rush into each other’s arms in a shower of passion and sparks, defying their families, their classes, their nations, their faiths to keep them apart. Only to realize, however many nights<sup><a href="#fn43" id="ref43" name="ref43">[43]</a></sup> later that they’d made a serious mistake.</p><p>Crowley was afraid <em>that</em> he was angry. And angry that he was afraid. With nothing to keep them apart... Well.<sup><a href="#fn44" id="ref44" name="ref44">[44]</a></sup> He didn’t want to say it even in the darkest part of his own mind. Figuring that the “let’s stay under Heaven and Hell’s radars” part of their plan was more or less futile at this point, Crowley sank down onto a bench that hadn’t existed a moment before. He put his head in his hands and let the thoughts chase each other around in circles until they got tired. Fuck knew he was.</p><p>It’s very annoying, when one is <em>clearly</em> wallowing in miserable melancholy, for the outside world to shove in where it isn’t wanted. A vastly stupid droning noise kept pushing itself to the front of Crowley’s awareness, demanding his attention. Crowley shut his eyes and stuffed fingers in each of his ears out of pure stubbornness, but he couldn’t do that and block up his nose at the same time. Something was off. Odd. Out of joint. He flicked his tongue out, trying to concentrate on the fleeting essence of—what was it? Alcohol? Yes, but there was more. Honey? Honeyed mead. That was it. The scent of honeyed mead, of all things, drifted over his shoulder along with the <em>infernal</em> droning of what had to be the biggest swarm of flies he’d ever—oh fucking Satan.</p><p>Crowley leapt to his feet and whipped around in horror. It was Beelzebub. Had to be. The fly swarm was so dense as to be almost solid, thicker even than the locusts Moses brought down on Pi-Rameses, zigzagging around trees as fast as they could go. Chasing them was—Crowley squinted, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, but there they still were—a whole posse of children. Not human children, of course. They could have been a pastoral masterpiece in motion. Each shone with a kind of giddy golden perfection: hair in ringlets crowned by braided wreaths of roses and violets, cheeks pale and dark and freckled all chubby and smiling and full of laughter, loose tunics glowing with all the sun-chased brilliance that the cold English morning definitely did not possess. Each child carried a butterfly net on a long gleaming wooden pole. They laughed as they ran, swishing the nets through Beelzebub and somehow, against all the physics Crowley<sup><a href="#fn45" id="ref45" name="ref45">[45]</a></sup> had ever been acquainted with, the Prince of Hell was being slowly gobbled up. The swarm diminished further and further as he watched, finally dwindling to nothing among childish shrieks of delight. Crowley stood slack-jawed, struck motionless and dumb with a whole exciting new kind of fear.</p><p>“Dadaí, dadaí, dadaí, look!” The young voice was way, way, way, way, way<sup><a href="#fn46" id="ref46" name="ref46">[46]</a></sup> too close for Crowley’s comfort. “Snake-sies!”</p><p>Crowley spun around and was abruptly nose-to-nose with a very small child, leaning forward from where an older, but still terrifyingly beautiful whatever-they-were held her on his shoulder.</p><p>“Yes, apple of mine eye, it is a snake,” the older one said. <em>Fae</em>, Crowley’s brain whispered at him frantically. Fae. Stupidly, he could see the word chalked out on Aziraphale’s board of possibilities but couldn’t remember anything else the angel might have said about them.</p><p>“<em>The</em> snake, unless I am much mistaken,” said a melodious feminine voice from his blind side. Unlike the children, she and the man were dressed in what were undoubtedly hunting leathers, albeit ones tooled and embroidered and gilded to a degree that really should have been ridiculous. It wasn’t.</p><p>Crowley opened his mouth, usually his very best weapon, to say something.<sup><a href="#fn47" id="ref47" name="ref47">[47]</a></sup> But the change had already started and all that emerged was a long, curiously high-pitched hiss.</p>
<h3>Footnotes</h3><p><a id="fn22" name="fn22"></a><sup>22.</sup> Aziraphale did not particularly rate this chip shop, (there is perhaps no sin so great for such an establishment as for a customer to once bite through the “fish” portion of fish and chips, only to discover no protein whatsoever within.) so that (unlike in Crowley’s flat) it would be no great loss if something, ah, explosive were to occur.<a href="#ref22">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn23" name="fn23"></a><sup>23.</sup> Unsuccessfully.<a href="#ref23">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn24" name="fn24"></a><sup>24.</sup> Only the fifth coughing fit the demon had ever experienced in his long existence upon the earth. His first and fourth coughing fits haunted his dreams with the thick taste of ashes in his mouth and the acrid smoke of burning books, but the second and third were significantly more pleasant (if slightly mortifying) memories. Of the second, we shall say no more than that Aziraphale never again swapped their dishes when Crowley was not looking. Or fed him gan guo. Crowley’s third coughing fit was unknown to Aziraphale but dated to 1682. Crowley had been seamlessly blending in at Louis the XIV’s court at Versailles when he suddenly beheld Aziraphale “making a leg.” The sun king was so struck by “that English gentleman” that he adopted the pose himself in a rather notorious portrait, the sight of which should go some way to explaining Crowley’s predicament.<a href="#ref24">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn25" name="fn25"></a><sup>25.</sup> Obviously.<a href="#ref25">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn26" name="fn26"></a><sup>26.</sup> A sentiment to which all parties present could whole-heartedly, and against all odds of such an accord, agree.<a href="#ref26">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn27" name="fn27"></a><sup>27.</sup> Crowley’s skin was still crawling.<a href="#ref27">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn28" name="fn28"></a><sup>28.</sup> In Beelzebub’s case—and occasionally in Uriel’s more frustrated thoughts—with actual whips.<a href="#ref28">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn29" name="fn29"></a><sup>29.</sup> Re: unexplained and disturbing disappearances of Entities rather like (but significantly more powerful than) themselves<a href="#ref29">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn30" name="fn30"></a><sup>30.</sup> For so we, like Aziraphale, shall call it.<a href="#ref30">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn31" name="fn31"></a><sup>31.</sup> Also unsuccessfully<a href="#ref31">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn32" name="fn32"></a><sup>32.</sup> Your efforts, dear reader, have <em>surely</em> met with <em>much</em> more success. You’re welcome!<a href="#ref32">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn33" name="fn33"></a><sup>33.</sup> Also, for that matter, in Hell. And let’s not even begin to get started on Purgatory.<a href="#ref33">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn34" name="fn34"></a><sup>34.</sup> Omniscience being rather the entire point of God, who presumably related to the various and sundry mythos in some complex, unfathomable (Aziraphale would say “ineffable.” Crowley would say “irresponsible.”) fashion.<a href="#ref34">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn35" name="fn35"></a><sup>35.</sup> No doubt sticking his tongue out as well. Who would know? Bastard.<a href="#ref35">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn36" name="fn36"></a><sup>36.</sup> This may have had more than a little to do with the fact that Anathema and Newt were both, at this moment, having their first ever dinner with the Device family. It had been going very hard for Newt indeed, as Agnes had prophesied Anathema burning <em>The Further Nice and Accurate Predictions</em> at his prompting and also arranged for a back-up copy to be delivered to the Device household in California.<a href="#ref36">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn37" name="fn37"></a><sup>37.</sup> Crowley’s many previous hours spent trawling the depths of conspiracy-minded Reddit, Twitter, TikTok, and other such digital environs for any notable recent events might go some way towards explaining his present state of mind.<a href="#ref37">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn38" name="fn38"></a><sup>38.</sup> Crowley was clearly not the only one in a temper. Existential dread (not to mention actually living with your lover for the first time in 6000 years) will do that to an angel.<a href="#ref38">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn39" name="fn39"></a><sup>39.</sup> Horrifyingly. But he was angry, bless it all! He was allowed to be angry!<a href="#ref39">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn40" name="fn40"></a><sup>40.</sup> Professionally, of course, he’d done an excellent line in Wrath via Petty Frustration and Mass Inconvenience. Example A being how long it took Aziraphale to forgive him for his collab with Pollution on The Great Stink of 1858.<a href="#ref40">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn41" name="fn41"></a><sup>41.</sup> obviously a Very Scary And Demonic Match<a href="#ref41">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn42" name="fn42"></a><sup>42.</sup> NOT St. James Park. Never St. James. Not like this.<a href="#ref42">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn43" name="fn43"></a><sup>43.</sup> No doubt just as passionate as certain intimate rendezvous in the best suite at the Ritz, the back room of the bookshop, the Bentley, his rain shower, the Royal Opera House cloakroom, a patch of grass on Hampstead Heath hidden behind a few discrete shrubs—well, I won’t presume to bore you, dearest reader, by going on and on.<a href="#ref43">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn44" name="fn44"></a><sup>44.</sup> ...maybe they weren’t meant to be together.<a href="#ref44">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn45" name="fn45"></a><sup>45.</sup> Whom, you should recall, personally put stars into motion<a href="#ref45">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn46" name="fn46"></a><sup>46.</sup> WAY<a href="#ref46">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn47" name="fn47"></a><sup>47.</sup> Reader, it was “FUCK.”<a href="#ref47">↩</a></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter carries the working title of Inkibus' gorgeous art! It appears at the end of this chapter. </p><p>The update pace will slow down a bit here, while I get a handle on some irl work again. Look out for a new update next week!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fae child grabbed for Crowley as he involuntarily shifted to snake form. She swiped impatient grabby hands through his hair<sup><a href="#fn48" id="ref48" name="ref48">[48]</a></sup> as it flattened into scales.</p><p>“I wanna snake-sies!” she cried, in the manner of one who would be stamping her little foot, clad in a sandal delicately knit out of dandelion stems, if she could.<sup><a href="#fn49" id="ref49" name="ref49">[49]</a></sup> The woman tutted and shook her head, gold-chased rich dark locks waving in a gentle breeze that definitely didn’t originate with the London morning.</p><p>“Now, now, a leanbh,<sup><a href="#fn50" id="ref50" name="ref50">[50]</a></sup> there would be no glory for the Hunt in that,” she said. “ And you already have a nice big toad to play with.”</p><p>“Don wanna stupid frog.” The child pouted, puffing out her tawny brown cheeks and scowling. “Wanna snake-sies.”</p><p>“Don’t sssay that, dearie. You could feed it the fliessss,” Crowley heard himself say,<sup><a href="#fn51" id="ref51" name="ref51">[51]</a></sup> without any input whatsoever from his brain.<sup><a href="#fn52" id="ref52" name="ref52">[52]</a></sup> Both of the adult fae sneered down at him.</p><p>“You will not dare to address my daughter again,” the man said.<sup><a href="#fn53" id="ref53" name="ref53">[53]</a></sup> He had what looked suspiciously like antlers growing through a massive mane of coarse reddish-brown hair. Unlike any deer Crowley had ever come across, though, the antlers branched towards each other instead of away. They formed a roughly crown-shaped mass, an impression enhanced by delicate lines of inlaid gold. Still had lots of sharp pointy bits.</p><p>“What good has listening to <em>you</em> ever done a woman, serpent?” asked the fae Crowley was starting to grimly suspect must be some kind of queen. He’d really, really, really never got on with royalty. Take Lucifer. He'd been much more fun before the whole “I am King of Hell, Lord of Darkness, Hear Me and Obey” shtick. Also, oy, totally not fair! He and Eve had been mates! He kept that thought to himself, so there was hope that his wits were working again too.</p><p>“Let us gather the young ones and return, Sorta, my heart,” said the fae king.<sup><a href="#fn54" id="ref54" name="ref54">[54]</a></sup> “We may plan how best to win honor in running down such a creature as this. Begone, serpent!”</p><p>Didn’t need to tell Crowley twice. He slithered with all speed under a row of hedges and in the general direction of Away. The girl's delighted childish shriek of “Bye-bye snake-sies!” echoed in some weird seventh dimension as he went, lingering in his ears a lot longer than it really should.</p><p>~</p><p>Traveling through central London is never exactly “convenient.” But it is much, much less so when one is a giant snake. After several futile minutes of increasingly frustrated experimentation, Crowley accepted that he would, for the foreseeable future, be a giant snake. Fortunately, it was A) Still pretty early, and B) Monday. There are few creatures indeed less observant than a London commuter on a Monday morning.<sup><a href="#fn55" id="ref55" name="ref55">[55]</a></sup></p><p>At first, Crowley made the most of his red underbelly and significant core strength, clinging to buses and blending in as best he could. His plan was to hitchhike back to his flat<sup><a href="#fn56" id="ref56" name="ref56">[56]</a></sup> and then come up with a plan. The major flaw in this pre-plan plan was that Crowley had never bothered to learn anything about London’s bus routes. He snaffled an A-to-Z street atlas off a few scruffy ravers still coming down from the previous weekend’s entertainments<sup><a href="#fn57" id="ref57" name="ref57">[57]</a></sup> but discovered that it’s very hard to read a map when you’re clinging to the top of a bus and don’t have any hands. Ride-share apps were no use—it was early yet but not nearly early enough to pile in with the nannys, gardeners, cleaners, and other service staff on their way <em>to</em> Mayfair, and all the inhabitants were headed in the opposite direction. Finally, he bowed<sup><a href="#fn58" id="ref58" name="ref58">[58]</a></sup> to the inevitable and dropped down into the sewers.</p><p>Of that trip, let us simply say that it is indeed true, that thing you read about the cooking fat.<sup><a href="#fn59" id="ref59" name="ref59">[59]</a></sup></p><p>Moving on. Crowley was very, very, very relieved indeed when he finally slunk up onto street level and recognized his building down the block. He barely cared anymore if any humans saw him, so long as he was out of the sewer and one wriggle closer to his shower. And his bed. Crowley figured he had at least a couple of days before the vaguely Celtic model Fair Folk figured out how to hunt down a snake; given that, (in)famously, no snakes lived on the Emerald Isle. Maybe that wanker St. Patrick had done him a favor after all. It was a slimmer thread than he liked to hang his continued existence on<sup><a href="#fn60" id="ref60" name="ref60">[60]</a></sup> but what. the fuck. ever. It was a plan, and he was exhausted.</p><p>Unfortunately, as you may have already perceived, today was not Crowley’s day. His sense of smell and taste were both still obliterated, but he felt the odd skittering vibrations through the concrete and knew he'd been tragically over-optimistic about how much time he had left. Apparently the fae definition of a glorious, honorable hunt didn’t include giving your prey a night’s rest and a fair head start. Crowley’s morbid curiosity made him glance back to see what was coming. Briefly, he wondered if whatever hallucinogens the ravers on the bus had been sleeping off were transmissible via street atlas. Mongooses. They had mongooses. A half dozen fae ran down the street with thin leather leashes in their hands, following hard behind twice their number in bloody MONGOOSES streaking towards him across the pavement. They were big,<sup><a href="#fn61" id="ref61" name="ref61">[61]</a></sup> vicious, and altogether a snake’s worst nightmare of what might happen if a squirrel fucked a dachshund. Crowley put everything he had into a final burst of speed, channeling a YouTube documentary he'd seen on black mambas, the Olympic sprinters of the snake world. If he could just get to his building... Crowley opened some distance at first, but based on the exultant cries behind him, that only spurred the fae on.</p><p> The sidewalk beneath him fuzzed alarmingly, feeling more and more like the kind of hard-packed dirt path that had no business being anywhere within the M25, never mind Mayfair. It was too far. He wasn’t going to make it. Crowley dug deeper, shouting at himself that the last thing he said to Aziraphale <em>couldn’t </em>be words said in anger, so obviously he had to Make. It. To. The. Godforsaken. Door. The door shimmered in front of him, like a heat mirage, threatening to transmogrify into a sheer cliff wall. The ground was significantly more dirt than concrete now, reality twisting further and further away from the London he knew, even as he hung on to its spiritual fibers with his metaphysical fingernails.</p><p>“<em>CROWLEY</em>!!!”</p><p>Aziraphale’s roar melded with a metallic shriek, and a fire hydrant<sup><a href="#fn62" id="ref62" name="ref62">[62]</a></sup> exploded. A torrent of water surged out behind him into a stream that cut the street in two. The fae hunters cried out in dismay. But Crowley still felt reality slipping away—and him with it—until Aziraphale thrust one radiant hand into the water. And blessed it. Crowley slammed firmly into his and Aziraphale’s own London. Presumably the hunters<sup><a href="#fn63" id="ref63" name="ref63">[63]</a></sup> fell into their own, because when Crowley looked back, the only being in the street was his angel. Aziraphale ran towards him, all the color drained out of his face and a mobile<sup><a href="#fn64" id="ref64" name="ref64">[64]</a></sup> with a bedazzled pink case clenched between his ear and shoulder. Right then. He might just close his...</p><p>~</p><p>Crowley slowly wandered back to consciousness. He was warm and—somehow he was utterly certain—completely safe. Gradually he became aware that his head was lying on something particularly, especially warm, soft, and safe. It rose and fell slowly, evenly, rhythmically. When he finally came fully awake, Crowley realized his head was pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest. He was still a snake, unfortunately, but a very, very comfortable one. Crowley largely draped on and around the angel, his excess length stretched along the backroom couch. They were both swaddled in some combination of fleecy tartan blankets and crocheted afghans, with hot water bottles in knitted cozies<sup><a href="#fn65" id="ref65" name="ref65">[65]</a></sup> placed strategically about.</p><p>“Are you awake now, dearest?” Aziraphale ran his hand slowly along Crowley’s scales. It was the number-one best feeling ever felt.</p><p>“Yesssss... keep doing that,” he said. Aziraphale quivered, a little with laughter and a little<sup><a href="#fn66" id="ref66" name="ref66">[66]</a></sup> with teary relief.</p><p>“I’m so very, very glad that you’re alright, my darling,” Aziraphale said. “I couldn't—absolutely couldn’t bear it if, if you—”</p><p>Snakes<sup><a href="#fn67" id="ref67" name="ref67">[67]</a></sup> are very good at soft shushing noises. The two cuddled on the couch in silence for a while.</p><p>“I’ll do the washing up,” Aziraphale said suddenly. “All the washing up. Right away, soon as we go back to your flat. And clean, and—”</p><p>“No, no, no, Angel—It’s okay. It was stupid. I was stupid. I’ll take care of everything, I—”</p><p>“No, no, you were right, I've always been selfish, I—”</p><p>“I’m glad to see Mr. C is awake, then,” Madame Tracy said, cutting wryly into their mutual declarations that they were clearly the one at fault and utterly resolved to do anything and everything for the other through the foreseeable future and beyond into eternity, so help them Someone. “I’m glad we were all in time.”</p><p>“All?” Crowley asked blankly. Aziraphale gave a guilty little start.</p><p>“Oh, yes, my goodness. It’s been, hah, all go here. Anathema deciphered one of Agnes’ new prophecies, you see, one that warned you were, well. In serious need of immediate assistance. And the dear girl tried to call me, but I was, ah, not exactly answering the phone at that particular time, so—to cut a long story short, Tracy came charging into the shop with her mobile telephone and Anathema on the line from California. That’s how I knew our shadowy antagonists' identity. The fae of the Wild Hunt can’t cross running water. One of their so-called rules of honor.” Aziraphale’s tone made it very clear what he thought of that. “So when I finally found you, I just decided to... make some.”</p><p>“In the middle of Mayfair.”</p><p>“They did not appear to have been expecting it.”</p><p>“And you made it Holy because?”</p><p>“Ah,” Aziraphale said. He paused. Swallowed. “That was Anathema’s idea, when I told her they had stopped but we were still losing you. Metaphysical anchor, you see. Increasing my, mmm, gravity. As it were, by introducing a large and philosophically aligned mass. Not,” he took a deep breath, “not my first choice, obviously, with you so close by, but we were rather seriously short on both options and time.”</p><p>Crowley exhaled shakily. “Have I mentioned lately how much I love you, angel?”</p><p>“And I you, my dearest,” Aziraphale said. Both of them bravely ignored Tracy cooing over how “adorable” they were. “I will <em>not</em> allow you to be taken from me. Not now that we’ve finally found each other.”</p><p>~</p><p>After very firmly wishing Tracy a smooth journey home,<sup><a href="#fn68" id="ref68" name="ref68">[68]</a></sup> Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves once again on the bookshop floor, surrounded by reference materials. Whatever the fae had done to him didn’t seem like it was wearing off, so Crowley stayed curled around Aziraphale (there were worse fates) attempting to be as helpful a research assistant as a snake could be. The angel poured through book after book, comparing notes with Anathema and the Devices while on easily the longest long-distance call the bookshop’s bloody ancient<sup><a href="#fn69" id="ref69" name="ref69">[69]</a></sup> telephone had ever attempted.</p><p>“Fae are known to be vulnerable to cold iron,” a tinny Anathema said through the line.</p><p>“So are demons,” Crowley pointed out. “But I’ll try anything.”</p><p>“Perhaps it will loosen whatever enchantment they’ve placed on you?” Aziraphale suggested. An iron horseshoe was duly found and<sup><a href="#fn70" id="ref70" name="ref70">[70]</a></sup> cooled in the bookshop’s wine fridge for an hour. Everyone was silent as Aziraphale held the horseshoe over one of Crowley’s coils. The angel touched it slowly and carefully to Crowley’s scales, with all the solemnity of a fairy godmother placing her magic wand on the infant princess’s forehead and gifting her with beauty, kindness, and a singing voice that would calm even the most savage of beasts.</p><p>There followed a short break for Aziraphale to find Crowley a plaster for his burn.<sup><a href="#fn71" id="ref71" name="ref71">[71]</a></sup></p><p>Sources disagreed on the efficacy of bread and other baked goods as offerings that would appease the Wild Hunt or place them under the ancient bonds of hospitality. Crowley could still operate his own mobile’s apps, at least well enough to get delivery.<sup><a href="#fn72" id="ref72" name="ref72">[72]</a></sup> None of them were keen, however, on trusting to the gracious good will of the creatures who’d murdered and/or imprisoned<sup><a href="#fn73" id="ref73" name="ref73">[73]</a></sup> Prince Beelzebub, a certain asshole Duke of Hell who shall remain nameless, the Archangel Michael-who-ground-Satan-under-her-heel, and that slippery bastard Mephistopheles.</p><p>Aziraphale found one reference in a crumbling<sup><a href="#fn74" id="ref74" name="ref74">[74]</a></sup> botanical text to gorse and St. John’s Wort as "weal" protection against fae magic. Anathema added rosemary and dill to the list, from what she swore was a venerable old grimoire but Crowley strongly suspected of being a woo-woo tragically new age cookbook. Aziraphale ground all the herbs into a paste and daubed it along the bookshop’s existing anti-supernatural wards. So far it seemed to be holding, but Crowley really didn’t want to be a snake<sup><a href="#fn75" id="ref75" name="ref75">[75]</a></sup> for the rest of eternity.</p>
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</div><p>Finally, Anathema sighed heavily in defeat.</p><p>“I really didn’t want to suggest this,” she said. “But I do have one idea for a plan.”</p><p>“Let’s hear it,” Crowley and Aziraphale said in totally unplanned unison. Aziraphale smiled ruefully at Crowley, whose heart in this form was clearly several sizes too small to contain all of the feelings he held for the angel.</p><p>“Give up the goods, Book Girl,” Crowley said. “I don’t know how long I can keep Aziraphale in takeout.”</p><p>“You’re not going to like it,” she warned.</p><p>“Anathema, please!”</p><p>"Really really not going to like it," she muttered. And then she told them.</p><p>They did not.</p><hr/><h3>Footnotes</h3><p><a id="fn48" name="fn48"></a><sup>48.</sup> Shudder. He thought as hard as he could of what Aziraphale’s touch had felt like, when the angel ran his hands through Crowley’s hair. The warmth of the thought grounded him. A bit.<a href="#ref48">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn49" name="fn49"></a><sup>49.</sup> AKA, in the manner of one very much used to getting what they want.<a href="#ref49">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn50" name="fn50"></a><sup>50.</sup> My dear child<a href="#ref50">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn51" name="fn51"></a><sup>51.</sup> At least his speech was working again!<a href="#ref51">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn52" name="fn52"></a><sup>52.</sup> On the other hand, his speech was working again.<a href="#ref52">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn53" name="fn53"></a><sup>53.</sup> Though the child looked very interested in his suggestion. Crowley didn’t feel bad about it. He didn’t. Well. Maybe a little bit. A very little bit.<a href="#ref53">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn54" name="fn54"></a><sup>54.</sup> If she was a queen, by process of elimination...right?<a href="#ref54">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn55" name="fn55"></a><sup>55.</sup> And the blessed tourists are always looking everywhere except what’s right in front of them, anyway.<a href="#ref55">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn56" name="fn56"></a><sup>56.</sup> He’d originally, instinctively started off for the bookshop before realizing that even if Aziraphale wanted to see him, (you and I, dear readers, might conjecture—correctly, as it happens—that the angel would like to see Crowley very much indeed, the more so given that he was in danger. But then we have the advantage of narrative omniscience as well as NOT being one of the idiots who eschewed the slow burn in favor of standing around for six-thousand years while actively on fire.) there was no way he could lead the fae to his angel’s door.<a href="#ref56">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn57" name="fn57"></a><sup>57.</sup> And whose—absolutely 100% true—story of the giant fucking snake tail that came in through the bus window and stole their map would, sadly, be declared 100% false by their friends at the hostel who had to pack up their shit and pay for their beds when the pair didn’t show before check-out time.<a href="#ref57">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn58" name="fn58"></a><sup>58.</sup> Metaphorically, of course. But still somehow with very poor grace.<a href="#ref58">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn59" name="fn59"></a><sup>59.</sup> And what it smells like.<a href="#ref59">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn60" name="fn60"></a><sup>60.</sup> Particularly after all the trouble he’d gone through to continue said existence.<a href="#ref60">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn61" name="fn61"></a><sup>61.</sup> Egyptian mongooses that naturally grow to two full feet in length, as a matter of fact. Not that these mongooses were, exactly, composed of fact, given that they'd been raised in the land of fancy." href="#ref61" rel="nofollow"&gt;↩</p><p><a id="fn62" name="fn62"></a><sup>62.</sup> Close enough that he felt the spray on his tail<a href="#ref62">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn63" name="fn63"></a><sup>63.</sup> And their blessed mongooses. Seriously. Mongooses???!!!!!!!!<a href="#ref63">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn64" name="fn64"></a><sup>64.</sup> Probably the last thing he would have expected to see Aziraphale with.<a href="#ref64">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn65" name="fn65"></a><sup>65.</sup> Design of outstretched angel wings and halo against a sky blue background<a href="#ref65">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn66" name="fn66"></a><sup>66.</sup> Bless it all! How could he keep making his angel cry?<a href="#ref66">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn67" name="fn67"></a><sup>67.</sup> Or at least demonic ones named Crowley.<a href="#ref67">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn68" name="fn68"></a><sup>68.</sup> She had started to make certain suggestions about ways to overcome their ‘temporary anatomical incompatibility’ that Crowley really, really didn’t want to hear her speculate about.<a href="#ref68">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn69" name="fn69"></a><sup>69.</sup> The hipsters who came in from time to time to take pictures for their InstaTokTubes cooed over that telephone. Called it 'vintage.' It thoroughly delighted Aziraphale and made Crowley despair of ever moving the angel into the new millennium.<a href="#ref69">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn70" name="fn70"></a><sup>70.</sup> Just in case the reference was meant to be taken literally, apparently you never knew with oral history records.<a href="#ref70">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn71" name="fn71"></a><sup>71.</sup> And Anathema performed a very unfair imitation of his Super Demonic shriek.<a href="#ref71">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn72" name="fn72"></a><sup>72.</sup> And he’d heard Aziraphale’s stomach growling, even if the angel wouldn’t admit it, so really no way to lose there.<a href="#ref72">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn73" name="fn73"></a><sup>73.</sup> Crowley kept thinking back to the little girl and her new pet “frog”<a href="#ref73">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn74" name="fn74"></a><sup>74.</sup> Aziraphale actually swore aloud when he realized the condition the book had gotten to<a href="#ref74">↩</a></p><p><a id="fn75" name="fn75"></a><sup>75.</sup> Or confined to the bookshop. Or discover that the wards only seemed to be working because the fae hadn't come back yet.<a href="#ref75">↩</a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>New chapters posted daily till we're done. Thanks incredibly to the Do It With Style Events discord for brainstorming with me and cheering me on, and to the event mods for all their work running the bang.</p><p>All comments appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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